


Father Figure

by MelitaMita



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Cheating, F/M, Father Figures, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Friendship, George Michael - Freeform, Infidelity, Past Relationships, Step-parents, affair, albert wesker isn't totally a dick, help i dont know what im doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelitaMita/pseuds/MelitaMita
Summary: The baby was soft and pink and she had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Her hair was starting to come in in wisps of blonde. Her fist closed tightly on his finger as she looked up at him. In three whole seconds, three strong heartbeats, this tiny little girl had stolen his heart.





	Father Figure

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Trinity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/502787) by [captain_tots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots). 



> I'm tired of looking at this. This was inspired partly by captain_tots fic Trinity which is one of my favorites and is definitely worth a read more than this.

**_1985_ **

 

Thunder announced the end of another unbearable day, introducing the night with a savage jolt of lightning that enraged the sky. Mother nature at least has the mercy  of letting him get home before the onslaught of cold rain and amplified humidity. Lord knows he’s already drenched in his own sweat by the time he steps through the front door. One boot barely leaves the threshold before another crack of thunder sends down a downpour. The land, dry and cracked and dying, suddenly breathes out a sigh of relief.

 

He humored the idea of a baptism while pouring himself a glass in the kitchen. Better by fire, he thinks, swallowing down the entire glass in just a few unholy seconds, barely registering the burn that followed. He shoves his boots into a corner, throws his shirt into the hamper and brings the bottle into the bathroom. One look in the mirror has him drinking straight from it, eyes staring straight at him. A shame what he sees really. Stubble was coming in along paling cheekbones. His eyes were slightly dilated and shadowed by dark circles. His lips chapped and ashed and his blond hair falling in a way that wouldn't go back to its original place no matter how many times he passed his hand over it. He still finds himself attractive, adopting for the moment an image of the exhausted musician that girls seemed to fawn over. A shower and a good night's rest would fix it. A few days away from the lab would help immensely but with what happened tonight, he wasn't sure if they'd require more of his time to fix it or if they'd want him on leave as a reprimand. It could go either way. One dead test subject would decide it. 

 

Ultimately it wouldn't matter. The infant was going to die anyway. Its physical abnormalities made sure of it. It's lungs too small, it's heart going off rhythm. She used to wheeze something deathly when she cried. She wouldn't have made it either way, he convinces himself under the pressure of a cold shower. Unlike the couple, he didn't give in to the futile idea that they could do anything to save her or that what they did to it would have helped at any point in their little experiment. He was the level-headed one, grounded in reality. At least, that's what he tells himself. 

 

He wouldn’t deny the fact that what they did was horrible. What they tried to do couldn’t ever compare. The chances of the project actually succeeding was so minimal it shouldn’t have been tried at all. The poor, deathly, little orphaned child that was found on the street in the cold seemed like a worthy subject. Afterall, that’s ultimately what they’ve been working for all this time. Something that would revitalize a broken human body. Something that curbs the imminite promise of physical degeneration. It hadn’t worked on single cells, it hadn’t worked on rats.  _ What the hell were we thinking? _

 

Of course, he wasn’t a sentimental man, he didn’t even like children. But that one little girl… Only a few days old, hanging on by one thin stretch of thread. Hearing her crying on that first night was horrible, pitiful, but by the end when she finally stopped, the resulting silence was the worst thing he could have imagined. Now that it’s all over, now that he is in his home and not within the sterile pale cement walls of the labs, what was he to do? The pale faced ghost of his conscience was sure to be lurking around the corners and screaming with every clap of thunder. There was no escape from that. He allows himself another drink.

 

He turns to the television he has but rarely uses to distract himself. He doesn't dry quite well because of the humidity and his skin is still damp and carrying small water droplets that wipe off on the leather of the couch. He can't bare much more than a tank top and a pair of sweats. Not in this state. 

 

He almost falls asleep watching one of those sitcoms he doesn't know the name of, almost doesn’t hear the knocking on his front door. Almost passing off that knocking as just another bout of thunder. It’s when the sound contrasts into the aftermath of a rumble that he realizes what it is. Just when it starts to become an indistinguishable noise, coming in impatient succession, does he get up to answer. Who he finds at the door catches him off guard.

 

“Will?” 

 

The poor man was drenched, his sand-colored hair sticking to his head and his clothes clung eerily to his skinny frame. He must be freezing.

 

“Let me in.” He says, his tone eerily even and lifeless. Wesker steps aside and lets him in, putting a mask over the displeasure he gets when Will’s shoes track water into his home. He watches him as he closes the door, notices his slumped shoulders, looking apathetic. Watches as he peels his jacket off and wanders into the guest bathroom to hang it up and remove his shoes. Wesker provides him with dry clothes, unsure of how long he’d be staying. A pair of jeans and a t-shirt would hold him off as his clothes go through a cycle in the dryer. He’d have it this way than let him ruin his couch.

 

And when he sits on the couch, he sits and stares at the television and just watches. Not a word, not even a look. It felt like the longest time before Wesker had had enough and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

 

“Did Annette kick you out?” He said, sounding tired. He saw Will’s hand ball into a fist. 

 

“No.” He replied softly. “I left.”

 

This was different. Usually Will never left her side. Kicked out, yes. But never left on his own accord. “Why?”

 

He licked his dry lips and said rather pathetically. “Annie needed some time alone.”

 

He wasn’t sure how to reply. “After all that’s happened this week? It’s not surprising.” 

 

“There’s something else.” He says, rather suddenly. He looked alive now, looking at him instead of the TV. His eyes were red and they were sad. Or angry. Maybe both. 

 

“What else is there?”

 

Will stood silent. His face grew more and more troubled and Wesker feared whatever was going on in his head. He watched him start to speak and then stop himself. Watched as his mouth opened and closed, his head shaking. After a moment, it seemed like he was never going to start talking again, but then he sighed and pushed his hair back. “Annie’s pregnant, Albert.” 

 

Shock would be the word to use when describing him at that moment. Just for a single moment, before it’s fading away and replaced with the usual stock expression. He clears his throat. “Congratulations.” The word comes out a bit strained, confused. He isn’t sure why.

 

Will just stared at him. For a new father to-be, he didn’t seem too enthused by it. He looked frightened, agitated even. But why?

 

“It  _ is  _ good news, isn’t it?” Wesker tested. “You’re excited by the prospect, no? I know you always wanted to be a father one day-”

 

“To my own kid, Al.” He interrupts, his voice like sandpaper.

 

He was genuinely taken aback now. He laughed dryly without humor. “What are you insinuating here?”

 

This time he answered right away, but the sour tone in his voice remained. “I see the way you look at my wife, Albert.” 

 

“Will, I never-”

 

“And I know that she looks at you the same way. She tries to hide it but I can tell.” 

 

His mouth opens and closes. The shock of it all kept him from producing words in any order that makes sense. It gives him pause. More like forces him to shut down mentally for a few precious seconds as he puts his face in his hands. It was a long moment, and then it was two, and then it was three. They stretched out for eternities before his brain clicked back on and he was able to say something. “William, I swear that I never touched Annie.” 

 

“You don’t have to lie to me.” 

 

“I would not lie to you about this.”

 

“Do you want to know how I know that you slept with my wife?” 

 

He stayed silent this time and just tried to read the expression on Will’s face. Expressionless, plain, like a stone. Just like he taught him. Just like himself.

 

“I know you slept with my wife because,” and that's when he can see his friends heart break in his eyes. “Because she told me.”

 

The night comes back in flashes. They were having dinner, the three of them, at their home. Annette was wearing a brand new red dress and Will was getting drunker and drunker as the night went on. Switching between wine and whiskey until sobriety was just a vague forgotten concept. Will could never hold his liquor. He and Annie were better off, almost completely sober, and it was him that carried Will up the stairs and into the bedroom.

 

“Al-” He kind of laughs with his eyes closed and his arm around his neck. He pats his chest and laughs again. “You’re my best friend Al.”

 

“I know, Will.” 

 

“I don't know what I would be doing now without you.” 

 

“I know.”

 

“Tell Annie I love her.” 

 

“Okay, Will.”

 

He rolls over lazily onto his back, not seeming to care that his shoes were all over the comforter or that Annie would murder him if she found him like this. With his face buried into the pillow he had wrapped his arms around and pulled close to his chest, he sighed. “She’s so beautiful. What am I gonna do-” The last words trailed off like dust being blown away in the breeze. Coherent words being replaced by mumbled nonsense and then silence as he he drifted off.

 

Albert sighed and looked at him for a moment longer, trying not to judge but finding it next to impossible not to do so, but then he bent to take his shoes off and put them on the floor next to the bed. Annie would catch a fit if she saw his shoes on her clean linens. The silent room was filled then with the muffled sound of his snoring, like a fat dog taking a nap in the sun. Awfully pathetic but it was warming somehow. If he weren't so tired he would have laughed. William Birkin, brilliant virologist, drunk off his ass and snoring with his annoyed wife sitting just downstairs. What a sight. 

 

When he gets back downstairs, Annette is sitting at the kitchen table twirling an almost empty wine glass in her hand, watching the red liquid swirl round and round. He truly felt pity for the talking to William was without a doubt going to receive the next morning. To avoid her wrath, he goes for his jacket intending to say his goodnight and be out the door as quick as he could manage. 

 

“Don’t go yet.” Her voice echoes through the house, reverberating even through his bones. He paused, one arm already through his jacket and when he turned to look at her she was finishing the wine in her glass, barely acknowledging him. 

 

“I should be going.” He said, putting his other arm through and adjusting it at the shoulders. “It’s late. I should let you get to your husband.” 

 

She laughed humorlessly, barely even smiling. When she looked up at him, there was an expression he had never seen on her face before. Something particularly close to sadness, red rimmed eyes being not from exhaustion. She gestured to herself, “who’s gonna get to me?” 

 

He shifted, uncomfortable for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. She looked into him for a moment, into his very soul, before gathering the bottom of her dress around her thighs, standing and placing the glass on the table. Walking over, graceful, like a panther stepping out of a tree. All golden shiny fur and piercing green eyes. And teeth. Her teeth…

 

“Huh, Al?” She’s so close now, touching his chest, pulling open his jacket.

 

“Annie-” he sighs, ready to pull away. 

 

“Who’s going to get to me, Al?” She whispers touching his neck now. She smells like wine and expensive perfume and everything Will is not. Like a cool night in a big city, wandering aimlessly through the streets under lamp posts and steel high rises, peering into the glass fronts of closed stores. Will is like a hot summer day running in a park, too much stimulus to be anything but exhausting, and he was caught in between these two at sunset. 

 

“I see the way you look at me.” Her breath was intoxicating. He couldn't breathe without getting drunk off of her. 

 

“Annie.” He said again. It sounds like a plea when it comes out of his mouth. 

 

“Sometimes I forget I’m married.” Her fingertips tip tap rhythms on the back of his neck. “Will isn’t very emotional. I think we can agree.”

 

“He’s your husband-” He puts his hands on her waist to push her away but she feels so good under his hands.

 

“He hasn’t touched me in ages, Albert.” Her lips draw dangerously close to his skin. “And I’ve been so very obvious. I bought this dress just so he could take it off. and  where is he now?” 

 

“I can't-” he managed but he could feel his resolve split and disappear with every counting second just as clearly as he could feel his body betraying him. She was just too damn close and it felt too damn good.

 

It is unclear who kisses who first. The situation favors her first move, but honestly it's not too far fetched to understand how he pushed forward and met her lips with hungry intensity. What is for certain is how he puts her on the kitchen counter, knocking over the almost empty bottle of wine in the process. The rest plays out exactly as you'd imagine. Her dress is hiked up all the way around her waist. His pants never see the floor at his ankles but they don't get in the way of him pushing into her over and over and over again. 

 

They’re both selfish lovers. Her moans weren’t lovely sounds adored, they only served as encouragement to his own pleasure. She digs her fingers over the fabric of his shirt, successful in ridding him of his jacket, just to urge him to bring her to her own orgasm faster. 

 

They’ve done  _ this  _ before. Before William, before the marriage, before lines and borders and titles. When Annie was just Annie and not Mrs. Birkin. When he could find solace between her legs without the thought of Will in his mind. It felt like a hundred years ago. 

 

 

He was sweating again. Will had leaned forward to put his head in his hands. The TV was just white noise fading in and out in the background. He needed a moment. He needed a few. He had slept with his best friends wife. His best friends wife is pregnant. The father was an either or an or between them. That's what he tells himself. That there is a fair chance, fifty to fifty, that Will or he would be a father in nine months time. But if what she had said was true…

 

“What makes you believe you wouldn’t be the father of that child?” His words were unintentionally acidic. Like ice or fire, stinging. 

 

Will’s face snapped up suddenly, trails running down his cheeks as anger balled his fists on his knees. “Because you fucked her, Al. You fucked her and now she’s got your fucking kid inside her.” 

 

“Maybe if you actually touched your own wife she wouldn’t have to get what she needed from me.” He snapped. It was as if a coil had been pulled too tight and was let go like the crack of a whip. The long sleepless nights, the dead baby, the heat all led to this.

 

He stood, refusing to look at him and went for the front door. “It’s late Will, and if I have to see your face any longer I swear I will break it in.” 

 

“Oh you will, won’t you?” 

 

For the first time in their friendship, Wesker was left speechless. William was never the challenging type, never truly stood up to anything on his own. He had found himself always the bite behind his bark, his tough friend who wouldn’t hesitate to lend a hand. But now, he was on the other end. The fight wouldn’t be fair. William could barely poke a hole through a plastic bag much less land a punch. If Will did decide to chance it, he’d be in his right to defend himself. It wouldn’t take much. 

 

“Are you going to fight me, Will?” He shook his head, tone lowering as he controlled his words. “Are you going to beat the shit out of me, huh?”

 

“Someone should.” Will spat and stood. They remained at odds for a moment, and then two. Rage was steady building behind his eyes. When they were usually blue, now seemed grey. The moment lasted far longer than either were really comfortable with until he shook his head. “You’re a bastard.”

 

Wesker watched his friend move to the front door and with his hand on the doorknob, he turned back. “Too much of a bastard.” 

 

And then he was gone, out the door into the night. The rain had cleared by then, leaving the jacket Will had hung in the bathroom unnecessary. It wasn’t like he would come back for it now anyway. 

 

He goes back into the kitchen to pour himself another drink. It’s acceptable, he thinks, as a man who practices control in his life, to bottom out a bottle when things in his life are going to absolute shit. The baby that mattered died. Another baby was growing in the wrong person. She could've been the right person once upon a time but that was a long, long time ago. He could be a dad. Will could be a dad. The poor kid…

 

He smashed the glass on the counter, tearing his lip with his teeth. The anger transferred through his hands into the bloody mess of his palm, showing the snap in his composure. Utterly weak, emotional. He left the broken glass on the counter and went to bed.

 

 

He and Annette came first. That was common knowledge. Will came later when they proved to be toxic together as a couple, with his dominating nature and her wanting something more of a future with substance. A husband, a child, her work. It was all very important to her, very multi-layered and intricate. It was obvious to him since the very beginning that it wouldn't last long between them. Then William came along, the man who suited her taste palate much better than he, for his sloppy seconds. A real tragedy if you asked him during those first few months. Annette was a straight ten on an imaginary scale where William was a barely a six. He was bitter, but she was right. They were good together. 

 

But he shouldn’t be a father. He was still much a child himself, and distant. Much too distant to provide for a new mother and a child emotionally. Men like Will make men like Wesker. 

 

He could be a better father. He could provide for them. He could be attentive, nurturing despite what any of the women in his life may say. He would know how to take care of Annette, how to wake up at three AM for feedings. How to hold the baby, how to change the baby, how to be a father. He  _ could  _ be a father. It should be his. It had to be. He was the last one to touch her and he wasn’t as careful as he should have been.

 

The baby would be his. Will could have Annie, he was more suited to her, but he was to be the father. He would make sure of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I rest now.


End file.
